From Mo Yan's "Bull," translated by Howard Goldblatt and published in The New Yorker (November 26, 2012):
Now that the bull was dead, everyone climbed down; blackish-red blood continued to flow from the wound, bubbling like water from a fountain and releasing a heated odor into the crisp morning air.
A word I often use in my teaching of narrative sentences, specifically when observing dynamic sentences that help to shape the physical spaces in which events happen, is "dimension." (And I like applying one of the definitions of the word that Merriam Webster offers: "the quality of spatial extension.")
Here, I appreciate the dimension created by our movement from the high place to where "everyone" climbed (to be clear of the bull) down to the specificity of the bleeding wound and then back upward through the release of the blood's "heated odor into the crisp morning air." Three movements shaping the space of this aftermath, all working within one sentence (I'm glad for that semicolon).